by Robin Paige
They arranged the rug as before, and Charles dusted his hands. “As to the factor, we’ll leave him alone, too, for the time being. If he believes we’ve been taken in by his story, he may make a mistake. And we don’t yet know who, if anyone, was killed here. It might be the woman whose body was found on the path, or—”
“But if she died in this room, that suggests that the Prince could have killed her,” Kirk-Smythe exclaimed.
“It’s something we must consider,” Charles said. “However, I very much doubt that the Prince could have managed this very thorough clean-up. And the man I knew was not terribly strong. If Eddy killed Hilda MacDonald, someone else must have disposed of the body on the path where it was found. But there’s another possibility, you know.”
Kirk-Smythe stared at him. “That the blood is that of Prince Eddy himself?”
“Yes.” Charles reflected that if Eddy had died here, King Edward might think it for the best—or might even have been involved, heaven help them. Charles certainly did not like the idea that he himself might have become a pawn in yet another royal deception involving the hapless Eddy. But he felt that King Edward knew him well enough to understand that he would follow the truth, wherever it took him. And the deployment of a trainload of Household Guards would be too much theater for even the King’s theatrical tastes.
Kirk-Smythe groaned. “Well, if he’s dead, I should hate to be the one to carry the news to the King.”
“Let’s hope that won’t be necessary,” Charles said, with feeling. “Let Paddington know that Duff and his men can’t be trusted, and that there’s a chance that the man we’re searching for may be injured or dead. If he hasn’t deployed the bicycles yet, have them sent out straightaway. It would also be good to send out small parties of men—no more than two or three—to search the barns and sheds on the estate’s outlying farms. Oh, and if it hasn’t been done, we’ll need a guard at the castle gates.”
“I’m on my way.” Kirk-Smythe went to the door. “And you? Where are you off to?”
“I’ll ask Duff to show me where Flora MacDonald found her mother’s body, and then I’m bound for the village, to have a talk with Dr. Ogilvy.”
It wasn’t long before Charles was back in the Panhard, several lengths behind Duff and his skittish horse, which seemed not to know what to make of the motorcar that chugged noisily along behind him. They were headed down the lane, in the direction of the place where Hilda MacDonald’s body had been discovered.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Tea . . . that newly invented luxury for ladies, so indispensable for their happiness, and so ruinous for their health—a forenoon tea.
The Victorian Kitchen
Jennifer Davies
Flora left Lady Sheridan to do her own unpacking with a little shake of her head, for most of the ladies who came to stay at the castle would never have thought of unpacking their own dresses, and would certainly never have turned down the offer of tea. But Flora understood from her speech that Lady Sheridan was an American, and she’d had enough experience with American guests to know that they were more independent than English ladies. More, Lady Sheridan’s many questions about the castle’s history had suggested both a deep curiosity and a wide intelligence, and her sympathy had been very warm and welcome—so warm, indeed, that it had encouraged Flora to say much more than she should have about her mother’s death.
At the thought of her mother, Flora pressed her lips together. It was no good giving in to sadness, when she had something very important to do—and time to do it, since Lady Sheridan had so opportunely dismissed her. She hurried down the servants’ stair to the lowest level of the castle, where the kitchen, pantries, larders, sculleries, and laundry rooms were located, along with the various closets and nooks where houseboys sharpened knives, cleaned shoes, and performed required valet services. If she made haste, she could have the task completed within the half hour.
When the Strathmores’ children were growing up, the castle’s permanent indoor staff had been quite large, forty or more, in the old days. But the children had moved away and returned only now and again for their holidays, as Lady Glamis and her brood had done. Lord and Lady Strathmore rarely gave large entertainments, so it was only the two of them to care for—and Lord Osborne, of course, who had been in residence for ten years or so. But a sizable staff still lived in, and various other people, including Flora and her mother, had their own homes in the nearby village and walked to and from the castle in the early mornings and late evenings.
At the door to the tea pantry, Flora cast a quick glance in both directions before going in and closing the door behind her. The tea pantry was out-of-bounds to the staff between early morning and afternoon tea, but Flora felt relatively safe. To judge from the rich odor of boiled chicken coming from the direction of the kitchen, Mrs. Thompson was already engaged in luncheon preparations, and the scullery and kitchenmaids were helping. The houseboys were out, the footman was elsewhere, the housekeeper, Mrs. Leslie, would be busy, and Simpson was nowhere to be seen. The pantry was as deserted now as it was likely to be all day.
Flora poked up the fire in the small stove that stood in the corner and lifted the kettle that always sat on top to be sure that it contained enough hot water. Then she took down the largest tea tray she could find and began swiftly to collect what was needed: a large china pot and cup, with sugar and a pitcher of milk; several apples, a pear, a large chunk of cheese, and a knife; and a dozen of Lord Osborne’s favorite ginger biscuits from the tin that stood full on the shelf. She did not want to risk discovery by venturing into the kitchen to see what might have been left from breakfast, but there was a plate of Sally Lunns and a few oatcakes on the shelf, and she took as many of these as she thought might not be missed when afternoon tea was prepared. Then, as an afterthought, she added half a loaf of bread and a pot of marmalade.
The kettle was boiling by the time the tray was full, and Flora was just filling the teapot when the door opened and Gladys Bruce came in with a wooden box of polished silver. Flora gave a guilty gasp, and Gladys jumped, spilling the box.
“I’m sorry,” Flora said penitently, for Gladys was her friend. “Here, let me help ye pick it up.”
“I should hope so,” Gladys replied in an exasperated tone, as the two of them bent to gather the knives, spoons, and forks. “Ye’d scare a body tae death!” She pushed back the corkscrews of curly red hair that escaped from her white, lace-trimmed cap. “What’re ye doin’ in the tea pantry, Flora? Ye’re s’posed tae be waitin’ on the new lady guest this mornin’.”
Flora pulled in her breath. She liked Gladys, and they had shared many confidences about their lives and loves as they changed bed linens, aired blankets, and dusted the family’s rooms—all this before Flora had gone to work in Lord Osborne’s suite. Moreover, Flora’s mother had brought her up to regard a lie, even a minor one, as a dark and dangerous sin. But she had been caught proper, and since she could not tell Gladys the truth, she had no choice but to lie.
“I am waitin’ on the new lady,” she said. She spoke with as much dignity as she could muster, seeing that she was on her knees. She fished the last fork out of the corner and handed it to Gladys. “See there?” She pointed to the laden tea tray. “Lady Sheridan asked for a forenoon tea.”
Gladys’s eyes grew large. “All that for one lady?” she exclaimed, getting to her feet. “My goodness, Flora, she must hae an enormous appetite. Most ladies couldna eat that much in a week o’ teas.” She frowned. “An’ she isna that large, either. I caught a glimpse o’ her when she and Hamilton drove up, an’ she seemed delicate enough. Who’d hae thought she’d eat like a bothy lad?”
Flora flushed, feeling herself not quite up to another, more elaborate lie. “She hadna breakfast,” she said shortly, and changed the subject. “I mun gae along tae the inquest this afternoon, Gladys. I’ve Mr. Simpson’s permission, and I’ve told Lady Sheridan that I mun be oot. Would ye mind lookin’ in on her durin’ the afternoon late, t
ae see if she needs awt afore I coom back?”
“Aye, o’ course,” Gladys said. She gave Flora an inquiring look. “Heard anything aboot Lord Osborne? Has he been found yet?”
“Gladys!” Flora gasped. “Ye’re nae s’posed tae talk aboot Lord Osborne!”
“Ah, bosh, Flora,” Gladys said, with a careless wave of her hand. “Ye can’t keep folks frae talkin’, here in the house and b’yond. Everybody knows the poor man’s gone, and the soldiers hae coom tae look for him.”
“The . . . soldiers?” Flora asked faintly.
“Aye,” Gladys said. “Dinna ye hear of it?” She leaned forward, her voice eager, her green eyes sparkling. “A whole trainload of soldiers, early this mornin’. Fine lookin’ fellows, they are, with bicycles and guns. They’re settin’ up posts in all the roads, tae make sure that he doesna get clean away.”
“How do ye know all this?” Flora asked, aghast. Mr. Simpson and Mr. Duff had dinned into her, time and again, that she was not under any circumstances to speak about Lord Osborne with any of the other servants, not even one whom she knew as well as she knew Gladys. Flora, a cooperative young woman, had obeyed, in part because she felt that it was a privilege to be allowed to wait on poor Lord Osborne, who bore all his trials with such patient fortitude. Of course, the other servants knew that an invalid friend of the family lived quietly to himself in a private suite on an upper floor of the west wing, and she supposed that from time to time they gossiped about him. But no one but she and her mother—and Mr. Simpson and Mr. Duff, of course—were ever permitted to be in his company, and no one had ever mentioned his name to her until now.
Gladys’s freckled face became serious, and she put out her hand. “P’raps ye don’t know what’s bein’ said, Flora. Aboot Lord Osborne, I mean. And what he did tae yer poor mother.”
Flora stared at her. “What Lord Osborne did . . . Gladys, what are ye talkin’ aboot?”
“Why, I’m tellin’ ye what others are sayin’,” Gladys replied. Her forehead creased. “But mayhap it’s nae so guid tae talk about it just now, wi’ the inquest and—”
Flora became fierce. “What are they sayin’?” she demanded, and when the other did not immediately speak, she seized her hand. “If ye’re my friend, Gladys, ye’ll tell me.”
Gladys bit her lip, her green eyes dark with sympathy. “They’re sayin’ that he’s the one who killed her,” she replied, retrieving her hand. “But nae on the path, where ye found her. In his rooms, it were, and Mr. Simpson and Mr. Duff carried her oot, tae save him from bein’ accused. And then he ran away, and has hid himself out in the forest. That’s why the soldiers are here, ye see. They’ve coom tae arrest him fer murderin’ your poor mother.”
“But it’s not true!” Flora exclaimed, horrified. “Lord Osborne couldna hae killed my mother. I know it! He’s a guid man, and verra kind and sweet. He’d never—”
“Pooh, now, Flora,” Gladys chided. She put out a hand and stroked her friend’s cheek. “Ye know he’s a strange one, nowt quite right in his mind. Ye canna know what he mighta done. Everybody’s saying that it’s only guid luck that he dinna kill you, too.”
Flora dashed the hand aside and whirled to snatch up the heavy tray. “Everybody’s wrong,” she snapped. “And ye’re wrong too, Gladys. Dinna stand in my way. I’ve work tae do.” And with that, she shouldered the door open and marched out of the room.
Puzzled and hurt, Gladys went to the door and watched her friend as she walked toward the end of the hall. But instead of turning left to climb the stairs to the guest suites, where the new lady guest had been installed, Flora went straight ahead, in the direction of the oldest part of the castle.
Growing more puzzled by the moment, Gladys cocked her head and frowned, watching Flora out of sight.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
On entering Glamis from the west on the left hand side is the Royal Bank of Scotland opened in 1865. Moving along is a row of cottages for workers. There are two thatched cottages, one of which was a bakers shop with a Bake House to the rear and behind the cottages there was a small hall where the Gardeners Society held their meetings and beside that was the local jail. Next is the Inn attached to which is a small farm with a pair of horses, two milk cows and some cattle. Next to this is the Post Office where all letters are stamped Glamis before being sent on. . . .
Glamis: A Village History edited by A. R. Nicoll and D. Quigley
The misting rain had stopped, the skies were beginning to clear, and a pale sun shone, but the little village of Glamis—three dozen houses, a handful of shops, the Post Office, a smithy, and an austere church—remained gloomy, for it was built mostly of dark-gray stone that was stained even darker by the damp. This small village was huddled close against the park wall, as if claiming the protection of the lord whose castle was concealed beyond the trees.
Having just inspected the spot where the murdered woman’s body was found, Charles drove the Panhard along the narrow main street of the village. Passing a tobacconist’s shop, the inn, and the Post Office, he kept well behind Duff’s horse, which was still noticeably dismayed by the occasional pop and bang of the car’s engine. As he drove, he saw surprised faces appearing at the mullioned windows of the one- and two-story houses which were set near the street, their steep tiled roofs topped with brick chimneys and clay chimney pots. At street level, a few windows sported window boxes, bright with geraniums and trailing ivy, and the street itself was cleanly swept. Between some of the houses Charles could glimpse green back-gardens filled with flowers and lines heavy with fresh laundry.
A pair of women in dark dresses, white aprons, and woolen shawls pressed themselves against a wall as he passed, clutching their market baskets and staring. Charles had the feeling that the attention was not due to the novelty of the motorcar, for the village was only fifteen miles from Dundee, and motorists must have already begun frequenting the roads. It was more likely the strange events of the morning that had them wondering, for gossiping tongues had no doubt spread word of the arrival of the soldiers, and the villagers must be curious about what was going on at Glamis estate. Paddington was already deploying his men across the countryside, and people were bound to be talking about the unusual sight of uniformed troops pedaling up and down the roads. He could only hope that the villagers had no idea of their real reason for being here—but he could not be sure even of that. Hilda MacDonald’s murder had complicated everything.
As they reached the south end of the street, Duff reined in his horse and pointed to the red-painted door of a stone house, rather larger than most, befitting the station of a man who was the village doctor, the King’s coroner, and a confidante of Lord Strathmore.
Charles pulled the Panhard as close to the wall as possible and cut the motor, waving as Duff turned his horse and rode, as he had been directed, back toward the castle. He had not wanted the factor, who was quite obviously withholding important information about Hilda MacDonald’s murder—and quite possibly the disappearance of Prince Eddy—to be present during his interview with the doctor.
A shy little servant, barely into her teens, answered Charles’s knock, and a moment later, showed him down the hall to a small consulting room at the back of the house. It was furnished with several chairs and a desk littered with papers and medical journals, a square table on which sat a compound microscope and several trays of glass slides, a dark oak bookcase crowded with leather-bound books, and a row of grinning skulls displayed on a shelf. Narrow windows looked out on a garden full of neatly-kept roses, and a small fire blazed in the grate of a brick fireplace. A closed door led, Charles suspected, to the surgery.
A stout man in a dark frock coat, nearly bald, rose from the chair in front of the fire where he had been reading, peering owlishly at Charles through thick, gold-rimmed glasses.
“Doctor Henry Ogilvy?” Charles asked.
The little man—standing, he came to no more than Charles’s shoulder—inclined his bald head. “I am, my guid sir, at yer ser
vice.” His Scots accent was thick and burry.
“I’m Charles Sheridan,” Charles said. He added, a little self-consciously, for he was not accustomed to the rank, “Brigadier Lord Sheridan.”
“Ah, yes,” the doctor said briskly. “Ye’re the man who’s responsible for a’ the commotion at the railway station this mornin’. Well, well, sit ye doon, my guid sir, sit ye doon.” He pushed a stack of books off a chair and moved it nearer his own. “Maud will fetch us some tea—be off wi’ ye, lassie—and when ye’ve warmed yer innards, ye shall tell me what brings ye tae Glamis.”
Charles accepted the upholstered leather chair that the doctor offered, and they exchanged the usual pleasantries about the weather until Maud reappeared, quite soon, with a tray containing a cozied teapot, cups, sugar and milk, and a plate of hot scones. The doctor himself, his round face wreathed in smiles, poured tea.
“Now, then,” he said invitingly, handing Charles a cup. “Will ye begin?”
Charles cleared his throat and spoke somewhat more formally than he had intended. “I have been authorized by the Home Secretary to take such actions as are necessary to resolve a delicate situation at the castle. I must ask you to treat what passes between us as a professional confidence.”
“My guidness,” Dr. Ogilvy said mildly. He leaned back in his chair, stretching his feet to the fire. “In other words, my lips are t’be sealed.” He gave Charles a frown of exaggerated reproach. “Although, if I may say so, m’lord, ye need hardly hae mentioned it. One canna be a village doctor an’ fail tae keep confidences.”
Charles relaxed. “Yes, of course, thank you.” He paused. “Perhaps we might begin with your observations—both as doctor and as coroner—regarding the murder of Hilda MacDonald.”